Nothing So Good
by naitheas
Summary: Gaasaku oneshot. Love is a curious thing, and only now that it has disappeared can Gaara bring himself to reflect on it and his shortlived relationship with Sakura.


AN: This was written for the 'thanksgiving' challenge on the gaasaku LJ community, 'Lethal Empathy'. And because we don't celebrate thanksgiving down under, I thought I'd interpret it somewhat differently. Aww… isn't this just the cutest couple? Hope everyone likes it. Please review!

**n o t h i n g s o g o o d**

**complete piece**

She was beautiful. My finger traces absently across her jaw line, down her delicate neck … further down. Warm against the cool glass of the photo frame. And she smiles back at me, lips pressed together as if she wants so badly for me to think she's mad. But I can tell. It's those eyes, crinkled at the edges and dancing. Frozen in time.

That day in the photo is a hazy memory of mine; of warm summer air, the strong scent of flowers and the feeling of skin pressed against my own. Cherry pink lips pressed against my own. And, as if it will help to remember, I press my fingers against my mouth, tapping lightly in thought. My other hand continues to clutch at the photo, so her image remains wavering in front of my eyes.

"_Have I ever told you how much I love summer?"_

We were polar opposites from the start. Her calling was healing – mine was killing. She was a romantic – the sentimentality of giving and receiving loving words, flowers, chocolates, whatever … was, and still is, totally beyond me. She loved the summer, and all I could associate it with was a dry, scorching hotness that, at its height, could bring a man to his knees.

But somehow … Somehow we managed to find common ground. And she taught me a few things about romance, summer and healing. I'm trying to remember the healing part now, 'cause it's going to come in handy when my own survival instincts kick in. When an animal is backed into a corner, they're going to lash out. It's instinct – at least for me. But the corner I've been backed into is a round one, and there's a way to slip out if I choose to do so.

I don't want to hurt her the way she's hurt me. Fuck, I want to hurt _something_, but perhaps as a last salute to her, I could do things her way for once. God knows I never did while we were together. But if this healing myself thing doesn't work? She's coming down with me. All the good times can get fucked – it's all her fault anyway.

"_Stop being so depressing. I'm sure you could always think of another way to interpret summer. At the very least, it makes girls want to take their clothes off?"_

For someone with such an innocent, girlish appearance, she could certainly startle you if she wished to. Her leaving me was one of those times. I frown at the thought, placing the frame face down on the table. There are times I can look at those eyes indifferently, but this is not one of them.

She'd led me to believe everything was perfect. We'd moved into an apartment together within six months of being together. It had put a strain on things – but then, things were always a strain with me. Togetherness is not a concept I can properly wrap my mind around, and I was always cautious. There was something about her, something that prompted a voice in my head to ever remind me that I was nothing. I wasn't what she needed. She told me I was paranoid.

I was. And I made that point clear everyday, as I stared at other, more attractive men, watched her gaze, noticed the way she would get distracted a lot when we spoke. She needed someone better, someone more stable, someone more secure. When I think back on it, I realise I knew that then, too. I was just waiting for her mind to finally click into gear and figure it out herself. Until then, I was living for one more tomorrow.

Muttering unintelligible curses I make my way over to the window sill, staring out from the 10th storey apartment that now is solely mine. I didn't want it, but she insisted. That bitch. I'm sure she would have known I'd rather sell it and live on the streets than have to get up every morning to memories of her. Memories of the morning I opened my eyes to find suitcases at the foot of the bed, of the tears welling up in her eyes, of the red rose on my pillow beside mine.

I'd understood immediately what was going on. I'm not an idiot. There was no more tomorrow for us this time. And I was surprised … I suppose we'd been together so long at that point I'd just assumed that these tomorrows would keep on coming until something huge happened and it all exploded and fell to pieces around our ears. But it was more of a slow build up, she told me, of little bickering, of widening differences, of dampening attraction.

And then she was gone, before I could fasten two hands around her neck and squeeze tight. Instead left to glare at the wall while the cotton sheets of the bed we'd once shared ceased to be as comforting as they once were. I would have given anything in that moment to be what she needed. A new improved version of me. But I'm nothing so good.

A familiar car pulls up in front of my building. I peer at it for a moment, trying to place the small silver body of it to something I've seen before. But I see a flash of pink hair and it dawns on me. It's her car … the one she never used to use, telling me how it was so much more romantic to walk places. I suppose she either isn't as romantic as she once was, or she has made a point of moving as far away from me as possible.

I continue to watch as she opens the door, with probably more force than necessary. Then her legs as they jerk out, no nonsense in a pair of sneakers and jeans. Yet tight jeans, I observe, my lips tweaking up and down in some sort of spastic movement that can't decide whether or not to be amused or bitter about this. Finally, her head emerges, and she squints up through the sun at me, not at all surprised to see me here.

She waves a hand in the vague direction of the boot and calls out, "I've come to pick up some stuff." I don't reply, and she scowls at me. "If you were at all useful, you'd volunteer to get everything together so it's easier for me once I haul all this cardboard boxes up there." It's the first time I've seen her in a week. She's been hiding, afraid of the awkwardness that would come with seeing me. Or perhaps of finally getting a reaction out of me, concerning the break up. And maybe she should be.

"And supposing I'm not at all useful?"

"Then you'll stand there like the idiot you are, your eyes fixated on my chest, while I remember all the reasons we're no longer together." She tells me promptly, and then with a little scrunched up face, goes to get her boxes.

I smirk, despite myself. For someone so edgy, she manages to take control of her unfortunate circumstances well. And, in her defence, she tries to keep her peeks at me and my expression to a minimum. She can't help assessing the situation.

I sigh, and then drag myself away from the window to stare at my lounge room resentfully, wondering to myself how things will look without the girlish influence smothering everything. Then I growl. Fucking pussy. I always hated those things anyway.

Like the pink rug on the floor, with the faded blood stain in the corner. She'd tried to get it off for so long, but blood is a persistent substance. Back on point though, what self respecting man would own a pink rug? Or such a frilly lamp? Or … Fuck was that a _doll_ resting on the counter? Next to _incense_? I silently thanked god I never had any inclination to invite people over. How absurd. Why would she have put those things there – they had absolutely no use.

So I backhand them onto the floor, kick up the rug, and fling a few other items towards the pile, which is in the centre of the room. A huge, pink, pile of shit. Then I glare at it as I wait for her to get her ass up here with those boxes, half furious that I'd ever let such items into my home, and half disappointed they would soon be out of my sight forever.

"What a lovely job you've done." Was her sarcastic greeting, as she dropped the boxes to the floor. "I see you made a point of being careful."

I glare at her. She avoids my gaze, but can't stop herself from looking just a tiny bit guilty. This pleases me slightly, though by just looking at me you couldn't tell. I slouch down into the couch as I continue to glare.

"You're going out of your way to make this difficult for me, aren't you?" She whines, more to herself, as she starts to pack. Fully aware I'm not about to answer, though if this is wilful or not I'm not sure. Between all the conflicting thoughts in my head – _kill her, kill her … fuck her_ – I'm not sure I could form an intelligible sentence.

If I wasn't so … frustrated … I might think about how positively pathetic it is that I could become so close to one person, only to have them walk into my life a week later as a complete stranger. She was the first person I've trusted myself with. The first person I've been able to stand staying with so long, and the first person that gave me this … this feeling. And I can't describe it, even as it hits me now. But now? It isn't the same as before. There's another feeling attached to it. Sadness, or maybe it's anger. Whatever. I don't like it.

But I can remember the feeling without the sadness and anger, and even if I never want to feel it again for _anyone_ … it will always be with me. And knowing that – that I haven't wasted this pathetic excuse for a life solely on myself – I'm thankful. She gave me something no one else ever could, and while she will go on giving that same thing to a great many more people, I'm thankful for the time she spent with me.

So before I completely sink back into my murderous, monstrous self, I decide to kneel down next to her, and help her pack up. Surprised, she turns to me, with an expression I know all too well. Lips pressed together as if she wants so badly for me to think she's mad. But I can tell. It's those eyes, crinkled at the edges and dancing.

She is beautiful.


End file.
